A Day in the Life of Scott Summers
by ManualImpact
Summary: See the world through the eyes of the X-Men's field leader, Cyclops. On a really bad day. New Chapter up! Not just a Cyclops story, any longer, it has evolved. Hopefully into something enjoyable!
1. A Perfect Start

A DAY IN THE LIFE.  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own the any mutants. Except the Morlocks, but they were dirt cheap.  
  
Scott Summers is frustrated.  
  
To any other man, being behind the wheel of a '02 Toyota MR-2 Spyder during rush hour might be a palatable experience. And on the outside, it certainly sounds like a worthy trade. Top down, wind breezing through your hair; it's a beautiful summer day.  
  
But, at 6'3", Summers is nearly asphyxiating. Even with the top down. It just lets the sun in faster. A bead of sweat trickles down his oddly relaxed brow. Odd, that is, if it were anyone else but the X-Men's current field leader, the optically challenged Cyclops. This is a man who makes life and death decision's part of his daily routine; and ingests tragedy with his morning coffee.  
  
Today, however, is an uncharacteristically hot day in Westchester. Reality seemingly quivers above the blazing hoods of the vehicles ahead. It is a dry heat. No one walks the streets, and with good reason. Floridians' don't even handle this kind of climate. "We New Yorker's are made of sterner stuff," Scott thinks to himself. Perhaps he says it aloud; he's not sure. The heat has him dizzied.  
  
The traffic light changes color. "Finally," mutters Scott. His lips crack; the heat has dried them out. He pulls his car forward, past the light, and turns into the parking lot of a grocery store. He parks, seemingly unaware of the fact that he's parked in a handicapped-parking area. Even without the actual sign that generally stands in front of such a parking space, most would notice the different colored outline of the handicapped parking space. However, Cyclops is not so named because of his powerful optic-blast, a force to be reckoned with. And, contrary to popular belief, he has not earned that name from his singular vision, or belief, in Professor Charles Xavier's dream of co-existence between all denizens of the planet: Human or..otherwise.  
  
Unlike some other mutants, Scott Summers is cursed by his mutant "gifts". Years ago, before Scott ever heard the words "optic-blast", or ever met Professor Xavier, he suffered a concussion in the same tragic accident which took his parents from him.  
  
For a time, it was believed that the concussion damaged the section of brain tissue that controlled the young boy's powers. It was more recently revealed that Sinister, a mad geneticist, experimented on the child's brain not too long after Mr. and Mrs. Summers' untimely disappearance (or.abduction by an alien race known as the Shi'Ar, but that's a story for another time).  
  
Since that time, poor Cyclops has endured life through a red haze: his ruby-quartz visor, the sole restraint for his mutant "blessing".  
  
How dull a world to live in is that? How very secular, to see things, to see everything, in monochromatic red. And don't think the fact that he's married to a redhead is ever lost on him.  
  
Regardless, our frenzied hero bursts into the store like a man on a mission. And with good reason. Today, Scott has promised his aforementioned wife that he would renounce his duties as an X-Man for one day. Twenty-four hours. Seemed like a reasonable idea at the time. But this is the same woman who has died for the universe and came back to devour it. (Or.live in a cocoon at the bottom of the Hudson. Again, story for another time. Let's just call that Door # 2; a consolation prize to omnipotence.)  
  
In his haste, Slim nearly bowls over a well-dressed, middle-aged man. The elder man stops our hero from collision with a simple gesture of the hand.  
  
"Whoa, there, young man! Whatever it is you're trying to get to, I'm sure it'll still be there," says the mustache man.  
  
Scott is off-guard, and overflowing with apologies. "Oh! I'm sorry, sir. You're right, of course. Terribly sorry. Is there anything-?"  
  
"No harm done, son," the other man smiles. "Think nothing of it." The older man then hurries away.  
  
As he glides through the produce section, the young mutant's mind rewinds to this morning; the beginning of Scott's "day-off", as Bobby put it, though Bobby couldn't say it once without snickering. Jean was cleaning up the kitchen after breakfast as only a telekinetic spitfire can, without even the twitch of her nose.  
  
Scott scanned his itinerary for the day: oil change for Jeannie's car, grocery shopping for the school (!), mailing an armada of package's out to Jean's family, pick up the dry cleaning-why does a woman who wears black leather 16 hours a day need 10 dresses dry-cleaned all at once?  
  
"Ya know, Red," grunts Logan ", ya got alotta stuff there. Y'sure ya don't need eny more help?"  
  
Though no one notices, Scott's eyebrow raises to this. Jean flashes a dangerous look Logan's way. As she turns back, though, she can't help but smile. That flirty smile that screams I'm trying not to be flirty.  
  
"No, I'm sure I can manage Logan," Scott returns.  
  
"Suit yerself, one-eye, but I"-  
  
"I said I got it, hairball," Scott yells!  
  
FWUMP-FWUMP. The door to the kitchen opens and closes, introducing the X- Men's founder and guiding force: Professor Xavier. Logan smiles, slightly, realizing that the teacher's pet has been caught in the act of being himself. Scott, noticing his tone, turns quickly and leaves.  
  
"Logan," Scott growls in the present. His jaw clenched, trapped on the thought of the laughably honorable samurai who can't wait to get his hairy eye all over another man's wife. Distracted by the memory, he starts shopping in a daze. Green bananas, green apples, green grapes all get thrown in the cart.  
  
Seemingly an eternity later, Summers exits the establishment to find a patrol officer waiting at his vehicle in the parking lot.  
  
"Is there a problem, officer," asks Scott?  
  
"That depends," replies the officer. "Is that grocery kart really a wheelchair and I just don't know?"  
  
"Uhm. I don't really..." Scott stammers.  
  
"Handicapped parking, smart guy," the officer explains. "Unless you wanna count being brass enough to spend an hour and a half shopping, while parked inna handicapped parking space as being handicapped!"  
  
Certainly by now one can surmise precisely what shade Mr. Summer's cheeks turn. 


	2. Seeing Red

Disclaimer: I don't own Scott Summers. Nor do I own Jean Grey, Sabretooth, Wolverine, or Chucky X. I do own the angry cop, though. "Take THAT, Joey Q!"  
  
This heat is getting to him. It has to be. His head is pounding so badly, even his vision is going blurry. And he swears he just saw lightning, but there's not a cloud in the sky. But his day has just begun; he can't go home to Jean without finishing all his "chores." Not when Logan's waiting in the wings to be as charmingly helpful as possible.  
  
"Y'know, Summers," he muses to himself ", the smart play would've been to let Logan handle these things, and stay home with your wife. What's the worst he could do? Succeed? Maybe take some sick satisfaction at sniffing your lady's unmentionables?"  
  
He massages his temple at the very thought of this disturbing vision.  
  
Another flash of light. Suddenly, the leader in Scott emerges as he thinks of his brother, Alex, and the much bally-hoed Summer's brother competition blankets his pain and disorientation.  
  
"I've battled a hundred Sentinels. Traveled to the future and the past, and even to far-off galaxies. I'm not about to give up over a simple head- ache."  
  
With that Scott looks up, just in time to realize he is, in fact, at the wheel of his car, barreling down the highway at unheard of speeds! He grabs the steering wheel with both hands, and attempts to maneuver through the condensed traffic of I-95, tapping the brakes in 3-second intervals to slow his momentum. He may be on 95, but he's going much faster than that. As he's weaving in and out of traffic, he notices a car pulling into his intended course, and decides it's time to test those brakes to the fullest extent. As expected, he loses control of the vehicle, but manages to alter his course onto the emergency lane.  
  
White-knuckles clench the steering wheel, even after the car has stopped. His heart is racing, which only worsens his migraine. Scott places his head against the steering wheel, breathing a sigh of relief.  
  
"Thank you, God. I promise I won't complain about the day, anymore," he mutters aloud.  
  
A flicker in the rear-view mirror catches his eye.  
  
"Hey there, 'smart-guy', ya happen ta know how fast you'ere goin'?"  
  
Scott squints his eyes enough to recognize the garb of a police officer. Worse yet, it's the same police officer he dealt with at the grocery store.  
  
"No sir, I'm not sure."  
  
"128 miles per hour," came the quick, agitated reply. "Prob'ly ain't at libe'ty to tell me why you were swerving all ova' ad road like you was."  
  
Thinking quickly, Scott replied ", I'm diabetic."  
  
"Ooohhh, good one. I've heard it, though," retorted the officer. "Just like I'm sure those shades are aren't hiding red eyes, right?"  
  
Scott winces, audibly at this. But he isn't paying much attention. In fact, he uncharacteristically begins counting how many ways he could cripple the officer with all the martial arts training he's received as an X-Man. The "red eyes" comment opens the gate with an astonishing 25.  
  
"Look, it may not matter to you fancy rich boys and your foreign cars, but there are other people who use these roads. And I'm their protection. Protection from schmucks like you."  
  
26. No, make that 27. He's not even considering his optic blasts.yet.  
  
Twenty minutes and a rather sizable ticket later, the officer informs Scott that he'll be escorting him home. Scott thanks him with a devilish grin, mouthing the words "hope you can keep up."  
  
As he pulls away, he knows it isn't right to feel this way. He did endanger many lives driving the way he did. Suddenly an alarm goes off in his head. It's his migraine, back again, though until now, he hadn't noticed it was gone. But it's back now, with a vengeance. Inexplicably, he thinks of Jean. And Sabretooth? Odd.  
  
The first night Creed spent in the mansion (under Professor Xavier's humanitarian "care" to rid Creed of his homicidal urges), no one slept much. Especially since Wolverine had left the team after Magneto's leeching of his Adamantium skeleton. Naturally, as a team the X-Men could easily take Creed.couldn't they? Hopefully it wouldn't have to come to that (little did they know), but Cyclops was sure that the Professor could handle Creed; Jean wasn't as sure.  
  
Much like Logan (though certainly not to the same degree), Jean had trouble entering Creed's mind. And though everyone was afraid to admit it, Jean had already surpassed her mentor in terms of power. But Charles was too stubborn to admit a failure, even before taking on the task. And Scott? Scott was too naïve not to believe Xavier. Certainly after losing every bit of family he had, Scott needed to believe in Xavier. No matter the decision, no matter the cost.  
  
Jean Grey (two months short of marrying the love of her life) had no such compunctions. She argued with Charles, heatedly, over his decision to "rehabilitate" Victor Creed. She believed that an animal such as Creed could not be "saved", to which Charles countered with his successes in Logan, Rogue, and even Remy. Jean acquiesced, but as she left the Ready Room she mentally noted ", you're wrong."  
  
"You're wrong."  
  
Back in the present, Scott realizes his headache has caused his mind to wander again. His perception is getting worse. If only he could take these glasses off for a minute or two.  
  
"Get a grip, Summers," he mutters unknowingly. He takes in his bearings, once more.  
  
Road: wavy, but check.  
  
Speed: 55 mph.  
  
To Do List: uhm..  
  
"Damnit!" he exclaims. "Must've flown out, since the top is down. Brilliant move, Summers. Damn. I could probably think straight if it weren't for that racket going off..."  
  
Then it dawns on him. There is a sound, like an alarm. But he's on the open road heading away from town. What could possibly--?  
  
PSSSSsssss.  
  
Scott's mind automatically analyzes the sound he just heard. It sounded like a blown tire. But the steering column isn't affected, only the accelerator. As the car finally slows to a stop, Scott finally sees the steam emanating from the hood of the vehicle. Then he notices the gear shifter, snuggly in first gear where it's been for quite some time. The dummy light is on warning of a necessary gearshift; same for the temperature gauge. Too bad Scott couldn't see it.  
  
To add insult to injury, the officer that has been tailing Scott, ever since the grocery store, smugly waves as he passes by.  
  
"No big deal, Summers", he says to himself. "Just a few miles from the Xavier Institute. I'll just-"  
  
CRACKOW!  
  
"Oh, sure, NOW it rains!" Scott cries. He tries, valiantly, to start the car again and put the convertible top up, but the car refuses to turn over. "Oh, for God's sake! What the hell?! Damnit! Damnit, damnit, damnit!!!"  
  
"Why God? When's it ever enough? It isn't bad enough being essentially blind all the time. It isn't bad enough being hated and feared because of a handicap! But the one time I try to have a normal day, I'm stopped at every turn thanks to my DAMNED EYES!!!"  
  
He isn't sure just how long he sits there, kneeling in the rain. Time is a concept lost on him at this point. The storm rages on, reflecting his mood in its tenacity. It's unforgiving, and so is he.  
  
Eventually, he rises, head still spinning and throbbing at the same time. He collects the one bag of groceries he didn't rip apart in rage, and begins the long trek home.  
  
Hours later, he mopes through the gates of the Xavier Institute. He doesn't bother to enter the mansion. He simply heads to the boathouse that he and his wife have called home since their marriage. He goes to call for his wife, but his throat is dry. Pity. At the foot of the steps to the second floor, he notices the damp carpet. "Great," he thinks ", I wonder who'll clean that up tomorrow?"  
  
He heads up the stairs to bed, feet tracking the stains of blood up stairs. 


	3. Accusations

Disclaimer: C'mon, think about it. If I owned even one X-Man, I'd..well, I'd probably pull a Magneto and turn all the idiot sheep into my slaves! MWHAAAHAAHAA!!!!  
  
Ahem! Sorry about that. Now you see why I don't own an X-Man.  
  
Lilvior: Thank you for the kind words. I hope you continue to enjoy the story. Oh, and your stuff's not crap, either! (But the Logan/Remy m/m was just creepy.) LOL  
  
"JEEEEAANNNN!!!!!"  
  
The guttural roar of the Wolverine was heard from nearly every end of the Xavier estate.  
  
He was only curious. He hadn't seen Jean since breakfast yesterday morning. She was flirty, coy. But Scott had noticed and snapped. Worse, he snapped at Logan; misguidedly, in Logan's opinion.  
  
But Logan knew Jean loved Scott; Scott knew it, too. But the man wasn't exactly "in touch" with his emotions. Like Logan had any place observing that. Oh they loved each other, no doubt there. But the life of an X-Man is rarely an easy one. And, while Logan doesn't like to admit it, the life of a Summer's brother is decidedly less simple.  
  
When he first came to the school, Logan didn't have a very high opinion of Scott Summers. He was acting way too old for his age, and carrying the problems of a world he didn't understand. He felt the world was against him, and was always on edge. Admirable, but Logan saw no reason for a child to have these traits. It would be years before Logan learned how Scott lost his family at an early age; or learned of the machinations of Mr. Sinister, shortly thereafter; or met Madelyne Pryor and Scott's son, Nathan, who would be sent through time thanks to the ancient one, En Saben Nur.  
  
Though he may not have realized it consciously, the truth was that Logan came to respect Scott over the years because he understood Scott, better than he may have understood himself. The fundament difference was Jean. Logan and Scott's lives were rife with pain and loss. But Scott always had Jean to confide in, or to console him, whether he realized it or not. Logan had no one; no one that could ever say with certainty ", I understand."  
  
"Where is SHE?!" cried the Canadian, desperately trying to hold onto sanity.  
  
After knocking more than once, Logan had picked up a faint scent, even from the doorway: CREED. Immediately he unsheathed his Adamantium claws and kicked in the door to the boathouse. There was a fair amount of blood at the foot of the steps, and the kitchen tiles were covered in it. After ransacking the downstairs, Logan had bounded to the second floor in two motions. Now he found himself ready to do something he might regret.  
  
"I don't know!!" came his leader's response. Scott was groggy, like he had just woken up from a 3-night bender. His mouth was dry, his face was numb, and with Logan crouched over him in bed, he'd swear (HOPE) he was hallucinating. Then it dawned on him; he couldn't FEEL Jean. Their psychic link was gone.  
  
"Blood's all over the house, Slim," the shorter man stated accusingly. "Mind telling me how you failed to notice?"  
  
Scott motioned towards his glasses, which Logan interpreted as an offense, and thrust his claws down toward the man below him.  
  
"ENOUGH!!!"  
  
The professor's cry was a mental one, but froze both men in their steps. Hank had carried the professor up the stairs in a single leap, but was transfixed at the sight before him. He let out a sigh of relief when he noticed there was no blood on Logan's claws; it was not he responsible for the damage downstairs, but who?  
  
"What is the meaning of this?" demanded Xavier. "And who's blood-JEAN." Charles' eyes went wide as he realized he could not sense Jean.  
  
Hank was getting worried. "Professor?"  
  
The professor had sensed this altercation had begun over Jean. He'd felt the emotions brewing since the previous morning. He'd meant to talk with Scott about it, but felt the need to let his children solve their own problems. Now Jean was gone, and Charles was very afraid.  
  
Scott placed his feet on the floor, holding his head. "What about Jean?" he asked wearily. "And what's all this on the floor?"  
  
"Blood, Scott," replied Hank.  
  
"JEAN'S blood," corrected Logan as he shoved Henry out of his path. Leaning in close to Scott he accused "It's all over downstairs. Looks like you trailed it up here yerself. Now, what the hell is goin' on here?"  
  
"Logan," began Xavier ", how do you know it's Jean's blood?"  
  
Logan glanced over his left shoulder, very annoyed at the question. With a gesture, he taps his nose.  
  
With a heavy heart, the professor lowered his head at this. He hadn't wanted to hear that Logan's renowned sense of smell had verified his accusation. He didn't want to believe that all this blood was, in fact, his star pupil's. Then, his head rose with new-found determination. "Hank," he started ", take a sample of the blood from here and downstairs. Verify Logan's hypothesis."  
  
"At once, sir," replied Hank. There was no pun. No long-winded quote. No humor. One of his oldest, dearest friends is missing. Possibly worse. Henry McCoy merely sat the professor at the foot of the bed, and went to work.  
  
Charles Xavier placed a hand on his first student's shoulder. "Scott, what happened?"  
  
"It was Creed," interrupted Logan.  
  
"CREED?!" the other men exclaimed in unison.  
  
"His stench is all over the boathouse," continued Logan. "Even here, in the.bedroom." Logan's body tensed at this statement. Scott Summers went rigid. Charles Xavier remained cool.  
  
The professor, turning his attention back to Scott, questioned the young leader. "Scott, what happened yesterday?"  
  
"I don't know," Scott languished.  
  
"Don't think about Jean, son," Xavier replied softly. He knew Scott was obviously upset right now. But Xavier was a professor, after all. He knew that Scott and Jean's psychic rapport must have been disconnected sometime yesterday, before she was.abducted. And he could sense the boy's disorientation, which was not uncommon considering the circumstances. But Professor Xavier had conditioned Scott to be a detached leader; Scott had faced worse fates than this and remained in control. Even in the face of such a dire situation, Scott was acting out of character. He dared not enter the younger man's mind for fear it would unbalance him. "What do you remember from yesterday?"  
  
Scott slowly began the tale: his altercation with the police, his near- collision on the highway, the tuition-sized ticket he received, the over- heating car, and his long trek home in the rain. (Oddly, he left out a few details: his anger, memories of Creed and, of course, his snide remarks about Logan's giri.)  
  
During Scott's explanation of the day prior, the professor called out to his favorite pupil from the original class: ("Hank?")  
  
Hank McCoy was only downstairs, trying to find a damp sample of blood in the kitchen. But he was used to the professor communicating telepathically, regardless of distance.  
  
("Yes, Professor?")  
  
("I'd like you to take a blood sample from Scott, as well. Be subtle.")  
  
("Professor?")  
  
("I'll explain later, Hank. Trust me.")  
  
Back upstairs, Scott still sat on the side of the bed while a consoling Xavier sat next to him. Logan stood at the window, arms folded across his chest, flaring with intensity.  
  
"Alright, this is bullshit," growled Logan. "Jean's gone, Creed's responsible; I'll be back."  
  
"Logan, I have neither the time, nor the patience to deal with your desire for vengeance. We don't know if Sabretooth even has Jean. I give you a lot of leeway here, Logan, due in large part to your convoluted association with Victor Creed. Considering what's at stake, I will do so no longer. You will do this my way or you will not be involved. And if that doesn't sit well with you, then I will include you.without your consent!"  
  
Xavier's words hit Logan like a freight train. Never before had Xavier the Stoic EVER threatened his cognitive faculties. "Nice bluff, Chuck," chuckled the shorter man. "But y'know ya need me in on this. It's Creed."  
  
"I haven't time for grandstanding," replied Xavier. His eyes narrowed, coldly. "And I DON'T bluff."  
  
Logan's fists clenched. For a moment (which seemed to last an eternity), Scott thought for certain the Canadian roughneck would unsheathe his claws and attack the crippled patriarch of the X-Men.  
  
Charles knew better. "Creed has taken another woman that you love. You want to do something about that. While I appreciate that sentiment, I cannot let you intercede this investigation; I have no wish to violate your mind, but will do so to safeguard a woman that I love."  
  
Logan pondered the professor's words. He knew Charles only wanted to find Jean, as soon as humanly possible. "Alright Chuck, I'll do it your way.for now."  
  
"Thank you, Logan. ("X-Men! Report to the War Room, immediately!")  
  
Logan then lifted the professor into his arms and started down the stairs.  
  
"Logan?" began Scott.  
  
Logan stopped halfway down the stairs and turned to look at Summers. He felt bad for having the audacity to accuse Scott of having anything to do with Jean's abduction.  
  
Scott, still sitting in bed, shook his head. "Nevermind," he muttered.  
  
Logan turned to head back down the stairs when something caught his attention.  
  
"What is it, Logan?" asked Charles.  
  
"I dunno," replied Logan, curiously. "Something.familiar. I wanna say.evil. Just can't place it."  
  
Cyclops lifted himself out of bed as the other men left. His head was still spinning, and his hearing was fading in and out. He stumbled into the bathroom to wash up, before heading to the War Room. Glancing in the mirror, he turned to faucet on and splashed some cold water in his face. Returning his gaze to the mirror, Scott is horrified to see the very skin peeling off his face and down the drain! "What the hell is happening to me?" exclaimed Scott as he curled into a ball on the bathroom floor. Then he saw, in the reflection of the shower stall, one who could possibly answer all of Scott's questions and more.  
  
Logan and Xavier were halfway back to the mansion when Logan stopped dead in his tracks. "That's what it was!" he growled, and turned back towards the boathouse.  
  
"Logan!" Xavier cried after the hairy man. "What is-"  
  
"Can't you read him, Chuck?" Logan called back. "He's in there with Hank and Cyke!"  
  
Charles Xavier closed his eyes and concentrated. Suddenly, his eyes went wide as dinner plates. ("Henry! Scott! Get out of the boathouse, now! He's in there with you!!")  
  
The Beast was puzzled by this statement. Were Sabretooth here, Logan would have found him, immediately. ("Who, Professor?")  
  
("SINISTER!") 


	4. Sinister Alliances

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters featured within this fan fic, though I did consider purchasing Marvel stock. Does that count? But, seriously, I make nothing off of this.  
  
A/N: I apologize for the tardiness of this chapter (for anyone out there actually reading this), and will strive for a more viable schedule in the future. Graci.  
  
"Logan?"  
  
"Stay down here, Hank, this ain't gonna be pretty!"  
  
Hank opted not to listen to his feral teammate and bounded back up the oak stairway behind the shorter X-Man. They needn't have bothered.  
  
"Scott?!"  
  
No answer.  
  
Hank gaped as he walked the perimeter of the bedroom.  
  
Logan sniffed away in the bathroom, confused. "They ain't here, Hank. They're gone."  
  
"I knew that, somehow," replied the *blue man. "Though I certainly don't profess to hold your nasal prowess, I do well hold my own-"  
  
"Teleport," Logan interrupted. Wasn't time to let Beast babble, thought Logan.  
  
The Beast knew his teammate wasn't being rude, just focused. ("Professor,") he called out, ("Scott and Mr. Sinister are gone.")  
  
("I know, Henry. I cannot sense them any longer. Just like Jean. If you can, corral Logan, and return to the mansion. We have much to discuss.")  
  
Far away, no place, Scott Summers' mind is aflame; disorienting colors, disturbing images all plague his thoughts. And when did he get so cold?  
  
The colors and images have faded. He sees nothing but red darkness forever. Groggily glancing up, he notices a light shining down, enveloping him.  
  
"Don't try to get up, Mr. Summers," calls a voice in the dark.  
  
Scott immediately recognizes the voice, but forgets it all the same.  
  
"Nathan?" he calls to the voice.  
  
"Excuse me?" the voice returns, almost off-guard.  
  
"I'm sorry, son," cries Cyclops, shivering. "I never.did right by you."  
  
"Ah," sighs the voice. "Dayspring(*). My ultimate goal in flesh and blood, tainted by Apocalypse. You must realize, as one father to another, I had only the best intentions in mind when I sent Madelyne to intersect your path." "SINISTER!" growls Scott as confusion gives way to fury and he lets loose a powerful optic-blast. Unfortunately, the blast is redirected back to him in less than a second.  
  
Mr. Sinister steps out of the darkness now, but only just enough to allow the stasis-field that envelopes Scott to eerily reflect his pale features (much as it did with Cyclops' optic-blast). His face, powdered anemia with glowing red eyes and those thin, blood-soaked lips, was the only portion of his visage viewable. Well, except for that that damned diamond on his chest hanging there in space, seemingly of it's own volition.  
  
"What have you done.with my wife." Scott huffed.  
  
"Scott, Scott, Scott," sighed the elder man. His voice was a sing-song of monotone cacophony; so many different sounds overlapping one another. "I realize you have much reason to doubt me. But think on this. Had I wanted to eviscerate Mrs. Grey-Summers, I'm quite certain I could have done so before your nuptials. I have always believed that your seed combined with Grey's would produce the most powerful alpha mutant to ever live! Such an offspring would surely have the power to free me, free us ALL, of the ancient one-APOCALYPSE!!"  
  
As Sinister drew closer to the stasis-field, Scott lowered his head. "But you-," he began, but faltered off.  
  
Sinister took advantage of this pause to make his point. "Scott, I know I've meddled far too often in your life, my boy. But there was a time when you were the only son I ever had. And, after little Alex left the orphanage, I was the only father you would come to know."  
  
"NO!!" cried Scott. "You killed Jean! YOU were the one who sent Sabretooth after my wife!! You-"  
  
"Victor Creed has become too unstable; he no longer listens his own voices, let alone mine. I don't pretend to know why Creed took it upon himself to sully your wife. I only know he runs risk of tainting her with his messy gene structure."  
  
Scott winced, both visually and audibly. The thought of another hairy roughneck having their way with his wife was not settling, especially not the way his head was spinning. "No," he mumbled. "No, it's not true. You cloned him. Made him, again."  
  
At this, Sinister threw his head back in laughter. "HA! If only I could. Then I wouldn't have bothered chasing you around in the various incarnations of X-Men. You cannot "clone" Alpha-level mutants. They are too powerful, which makes them susceptible to degeneration at the molecular level. Besides, Creed's DNA is lost to me. You X-Men saw to that when you destroyed a section of my tesseract chamber. Don't you remember?"  
  
"What are you babbling about?" demanding a quivering Cyclops.  
  
"Four X-Men: Gambit, Psylocke, Rogue and Beast entered my laboratory and deleted an portion of my genetic code filing, including Creed's sample. They entered through the orphanage YOU grew up in. I rather thought you would have known about this."  
  
Scott stirred in his prison of light, sweating profusely. This doesn't sound familiar to me at all, he thought. Am I losing what's left of my mind?  
  
"You're missing the point, though," Sinister stated. "I gain NOTHING from Mrs. Grey-Summers' disappearance. In point of fact, I am here to help."  
  
Scott's rage was now boiling over. "HELP?! You monster! You kidnap me as a child, under false pretenses of raising me; you clone the love of my life to further your 'genetic testing'; you make some grand prophecy of me having another brother-"  
  
"First of all," Sinister interjected ", I did not 'kidnap' you. Fate delivered you unto me. I DID give you a home and raise you just as anyone else would. I fed you, clothed you, taught you,. all the values and traits that are attributed to you, I instilled within you!  
  
"And," he continued ", I did NOT force you to marry Madelyne so soon after Jean's death. Nor did I breathe Jean's life-force within the shell of her 'clone', the Phoenix force did so. Just as it kept Ms. Pryor alive in spite of the degeneration factor. And I certainly had no desire to see you abandon Madelyne and your son upon hearing that Jean Grey was alive (though, I admit, that situation did work out to my advantage). The fact is, Summers, you needed something-someone- to blame. And I was such a deliciously easy target. Well, here I am."  
  
By the time Sinister returned attention to him, Scott had curled up into a ball at the bottom of his "cell." He knew that, in this, Mr. Sinister was undoubtedly correct. He did abandon his wife, and child, the first chance he got. And he has been trying to make it up to both of them ever since that day.  
  
BWOOP-BWOOP-BWOOP-BWOOP-BWOOP!  
  
"What the hell is that?" asked Scott.  
  
"The stasis-field has been monitoring your bio-rhythms," Sinister explained. He began typing away at a translucent touch-pad at the head of the field. "It has detected an anomaly in your blood stream."  
  
With Sinister's attention diverted, Scott settled into his "cell" defeated. His memories were swirling around him as visual memories, dancing in the dark. He'd lost one wife in madness. One child, to neglect. A mother and father to circumstances beyond his control. Now, he's lost another wife. A lifetime to lose an entire family. How could things get any worse?  
  
"Scott," Mr. Sinister began ", when was the last time you ate? Or ingested anything for that matter?"  
  
At first, Scott didn't even acknowledge the question. Then, slowly, he began to look up. "Breakfast," he muttered ", at breakfast, yestereday."  
  
"At the mansion, I assume?" Sinister inquired.  
  
"Yes," Scott answered. "At the mansion.with Jean."  
  
"And.no one else?" Sinister pressed.  
  
Almost sleepily, Scott replied ", Logan."  
  
Sinister sighed deeply. I was afraid you'd say that.  
  
Scott's head flopped to one side as he turned it. "Why you say that?"  
  
Sinister detached a portion of the stasis-field generator for Scott to view. "In your bloodstream," he began ", I found a large concentration of Japanese Valerian Root extract. It's commonly known to produce highly psychotropic effects on those who would ingest it."  
  
Sinister continued on his with his explanation, but Scott Summers was beyond comprehension at that point. He was concentrating, with all his might, to remember the morning prior.  
  
At breakfast, with.Madelyne? No, that's not right, he thought to himself. Jean. Breakfast with Jean. And someone else. Did 'Lynne poison me?  
  
"Hey, Summers, drink this!" called a gruff voice, deep within his memory. "It'll put some hair on yer chest!"  
  
Logan.  
  
Logan!  
  
LOGAN!!  
  
"Scott?" Mr. Sinister realized Scott Summers was no longer listening.  
  
"It was Logan," Scott hissed. For the first time since the conversation began, Summers rose to his feet within the stasis-field. "Logan did this to me. And he was there this morning when Jean was missing. Hovering over me, spouting off crazy things."  
  
"Now, Scott," cooed Sinister ", let's not jump to conclusions. Let's take this one step at a time. A good first step would be to cleanse your system of the toxin in question. Shall we begin?"  
  
Author's Notes: Nathan Dayspring Askani-Son, AKA Charles Nathan Christopher Summers is the love-child of Scott Summers and Madelyne Pryor.  
  
Madelyne Pryor is a clone of Jean Grey, created years ago, but brought to life when the Dark Phoenix destroyed itself in the blue area of the moon (UXM # 137, explained during the Inferno X-Over).  
  
Sinister did, in fact, lose Creed's DNA to the X-Men (X-Men 2nd series # 34).  
  
I'm hoping, by now, anyone reading has figured out that poor Cyclops has been "slipped a Mickey", so don't get to angry with me for his out of character behavior. Like what you've read? Lemme know! Don't like what you've read, please let me know, in detail. 


	5. Roster Split

Disclaimer: I make no money..OFF OF THIS! No, baby, come back, I gots plenty of flow! For real, 'do! I am Batman! Shit, I mean. Ah, she's gone. Well, at least I have you guys, right? (RIGHT, right..echo, echo)  
  
A/N: While I will refer to the X-Treme X-Men, I have not been the biggest fan of either Chuck Austen or Grant Morrison's version of X-Men. (I know, "boo and hiss" right?) so don't expect their line-up and my line-up to coincide.  
  
Not ten minutes after Cyclops was abducted from the grounds of the Xavier Estate, the full roster of X-Men had reported to the War Room.  
  
"X-Men, we have an emergency. Scott is unfortunately not with us. In lieu of Scott, Hank will brief you all," explained the Professor.  
  
"Lady and gents," began Beast ", sometime between yesterday and today, our own resident telepath disappeared. We don't know where she's gone, nor if she's hurt. The only evidence we have accumulated thus far is the faint odor of one Victor Creed, and enough DNA evidence to renew the O.J. trial."  
  
SNIKT!  
  
"Ahem!" the Beast nervously cleared his throat. "I meant no harm, Logan, I was only trying to make light of an otherwise egregious situation."  
  
"Just stick to the facts, Hank," retorted Logan. "Every second you waste on a cheap laugh is TWO I could'a spent findin' Creed."  
  
"And Jean," corrected Warren.  
  
"And Scott," Xavier replied.  
  
"Whoa," exclaimed Bobby ", Creed took Jean AND had the balls to come back for Scotty?"  
  
"You said there was DNA," began Warren. "Was it Jean's blood?"  
  
"Vas dere a struggle?" inquired Kurt.  
  
"How was Sabretooth involved?" questioned Forge.  
  
"Where's Scott and Jean now?" cried Bobby.  
  
"Creed was here?" Jubilee lamented. "At the mansion?"  
  
As the questions grew louder and louder, Henry McCoy lowered his head. "How does Scott keep this motley crew in check all the time," he thought to himself. As his other X-Men fought for control of the briefing, Hank glanced at Logan and nodded.  
  
SNIKT!  
  
"Alright, we tried doing it McCoy's way, now it's MY turn!" Logan roared. "I smelled Creed at the boathouse. Jean's blood is all over the fuckin' place." He paused, momentarily, to glance at Jubilee. "Summers was still there this morning, but after Chuck talked to him, Sinister showed up and took 'im. Raise yer hands if ya think it was a coincidence."  
  
The remainder of the squad was decidedly silent.  
  
"The truth is," interjected the professor ", we don't know what's going on. Yet. Whether Sinister and Sabretooth are working together or not is irrelevant. Two of your team are missing; two of my children are missing."  
  
With that statement, Xavier reached up to massage his temples.  
  
Jubilee, youngest of the X-Men, opted to take advantage of the elder man's silence. "I don't get it, Professor. Why don'cha just look Scott and Jean up in Cerebra?"  
  
"It's not Yahoo," snickered Bobby.  
  
"Eat me, Ice-dick, you know what I mean!" retorted Jubilation.  
  
Warren put a hand over Bobby's mouth before he could return the argument. Wolverine gave Jubilee a silent stare, and she remained so.  
  
"I have no way to know when, precisely, Jean disappeared," Xavier replied. "I was hoping Scott's psychic rapport with Jean would help us determine an approximate time, but to no avail."  
  
"And now Scott is gone," cited Kurt.  
  
"Yes," continued Xavier ", however, all is not lost. Cerebra does have a positive track on Sabre-"  
  
"WHAT?!" growled Logan. "All this time we been fuckin' yappin', and we got a 20 on Creed?" He kicked out of his chair, and started for the door, all the while studying the vid-screen that tracked Sabretooth's whereabouts.  
  
"Logan, what did I tell you?" Xavier stated. It wasn't a question, but a warning.  
  
The Wolverine stood in the doorway, shoulders visibly heaving. He turned his head back towards the assemblage in the War Room. "Chuck," he began ", join me fer a sec."  
  
"Logan, whatever you must say can be said in front of your teammates. I haven't the time for high school mentality."  
  
This was all the down talk Logan could stand, as he sauntered back into the War Room, grabbed Xavier's hover chair by both sides, and pulled it close. "Creed has Adamantium," Logan said through gritted teeth.  
  
Jubilee gasped, audibly.  
  
Warren could only mouth the words: OH SHIT.  
  
"He's stronger," Logan continued. "He's faster. He's more durable. I don't know if I can beat him. And I know ain't no one here that can, either."  
  
Charles Xavier didn't budge throughout the entire confrontation. "And why is that, Logan?" he wondered aloud.  
  
"'Cause they can't beat me."  
  
"No offense, Logan," Warren interjected ", but why do we want to BEAT Creed right now? Wouldn't we be better suited following him back to Jean? Or Scott, for that matter?"  
  
"Precisely Warren," answered Hank. "Which is why I've divided the team into two separate conflagrations. While I verify the authenticity of Jean's blood in the boathouse, Angel will take Nightcrawler and Iceman to monitor Creed. DO NOT ENGAGE HIM! I cannot fully stress how important it is that he does not see you! We will attempt to determine what Creed's role is from a distance. Logan, you'll be on stand-by, on the off-chance Creed senses their presence."  
  
"I wanna go," cried Jubilee.  
  
"NO, Jubilee," answered Hank, Logan and Xavier in unison.  
  
"Jubilee, you'll be on a mission with Forge, attempting to bring Storm and her misfit crew of X-Men back to the mansion," Xavier explained.  
  
"Charles," Forge began ", are you certain that's wise?"  
  
"I understand your hesitation," Xavier apologized, placing his hand on the Indian's shoulder. "But the truth is, today was my breaking point. I've seen enough of my children disappear from my very doorstep." He then made for the door, leaving his X-Men with one final thought: "And if Ororo believes I'm talking about either Scott or Jean, she's only half right."  
  
A/N: Sorry this was a short chapter. For those not in the know, Forge is a mutant that can build anything his imagination can come up with. He also has an on-again, off-again relationship with Storm (he once proposed to her, only to get shot down in a blaze a' glory). 


	6. Dead Giveaway

Disclaimer: Do you have any idea how boring it is coming up with a new disclaimer everytime I write a chapter, just to say I didn't create the X- Men? And isn't this common knowledge? I'm not making any money writing this. Did you throw down $2.25 to read this? NO! Did I put any thought into this non-money-making-idea? NO!  
  
Lilvior: Again, sorry it's taken so long. I hope you enjoy the next chapter (as it's a bit longer than I'm used to). Thank you for your patience.  
  
Torturegirl2003@yahoo.com: I hope I'm introducing a more entertaining side of Scott Summers to you. Here's hoping you keep reading.  
  
Anyone else?: If you don't like what I'm doing, please e-mail me and let me know what you don't like. I'd really appreciate the criticism.  
  
"How long was I out?"  
  
A cool processed wind flowed unabated into Scott Summers' face. He was lying on his back; large, bright light shining his face.  
  
"Not long," came the digitized reply. "Seven minutes, thirty-two seconds."  
  
Scott's lips and tongue were cracked, his eyes burned and tingled. His hand reached for his head in a slow, trembling motion. Instinctively, he scanned the perimeter of the dark room, not even sure what he was looking for.  
  
Mr. Sinister held out his hand, palm up. "Your watch, Mr. Summers."  
  
The LCD read 1:38 pm. Compulsively, Scott scanned back through his mind. Considering the tumultuous start to his day, it sounded about right to him.  
  
Sinister was preoccupied, working feverishly at a monitor set up against the thinly-cushioned table Scott sat upon.  
  
Suddenly Scott cried out in pain! His hands shot up to his temples as he tried to regain his composure.  
  
Sinister glanced over from his work. "Curious," he muttered, and returned to his work.  
  
Gradually, the pain subsided. Tears streamed down the bridge of Scott's nose. He thrust his glance up at Sinister, jaw clenched. "What was that about?! What did you—"  
  
"What did I do?" Sinister mocked. "Don't forget, dear boy, YOU commissioned ME to remove that toxin from your blood stream! After all I've done for you, do you still not trust me?"  
  
With a quick shove, Scott pinned Mr. Sinister against the far wall of the tesseract chamber. Teeth gritted, he muttered ", What've you ever done for me?"  
  
Seemingly taken aback, Sinister flung the boy away with a gesture. "You would ask such a question of me?" He stomped back over to his workstation, hands animating his anger. He stopped, and calmed himself. Placing both fists down on the table, he whispered ", Further proof, eh? Fine. What about Nathan?" When Scott didn't seem to catch on, he continued ", Think back, Scott. We were in Alaska. You were grieving over the loss of one you thought was you son. You were mistaken then, as you are now. I gave you new hope, assuring you that your son was not the madman, Stryfe, who you believed was dead; rather, it was Cable, a son whom you have renewed a relationship with, am I right?"  
  
While Sinister stood with his back turned, Scott recoiled behind him. "Yes," came Scott's response.  
  
Mr. Sinister turned and smiled. "And I fought at your side against the Dark Riders that same night! You trusted me then. Will you trust me now as you trusted me then?" Scott nodded. "Then may I return to the present?"  
  
"Of course," Scott replied, sheepishly. "What's the prognosis?"  
  
Sinister reached and turned another monitor Scott's way. "You'll be pleased to know the toxin has now been diluted with an enzyme of my own design." He noticed the cautious reaction on Scott's face. "Oh, don't worry. I "piggy-backed" it on a non-reactive allergen and introduced it to your bloodstream. It will travel through your body making short work of the toxin, and then your immune system with take it from there. Quite harmless, I assure you."  
  
"What about that sudden migraine, for lack of a better word," Scott pressed.  
  
"A number of things, I'm sure. Fatigue, malnutrition, returning equilibrium; has it resurged?"  
  
"No," Scott replied.  
  
"Then I wouldn't worry about it. Any other questions?"  
  
"Yea," Scott began. "Didn't you feed me to the Dark Riders?"  
  
Mr. Sinister looked at him, quizzically. "Beg your pardon?"  
  
"Your story. When we met in Alaska. Didn't you wind up abandoning me in the middle of that fight?"  
  
Sinister's eyes narrowed as he smiled widely. "Who won, Scott? I didn't go far, but I knew I needn't bother. After all, they WERE the Dark Riders. If memory serves, the fight went on about another two and a half minutes before they finally decided you were 'worthy for the coming storm' as they so dramatically put it."  
  
"Point taken," Scott boasted.  
  
Elsewhere in the world, though still unknown to all forms of tracking technology, the X-Men's Blackbird screamed across the dark sky. While Warren piloted the craft toward its destination, Logan observed Kurt and Bobby sitting beside each other, silent as can be. Neither was looking forward to their current mission: a possible confrontation with the psychotic Sabretooth.  
  
"Know how yer feelin'," Logan said in a very unusual somber tone. "If it helps, remember that ya got me on back-up."  
  
"No offense, Logan," bit Bobby ", but you were on 'back-up' last time we dealt with Creed--" looking towards the cockpit, he lowered his voice to below a whisper before he continued "-- and look what happened."  
  
Logan scowled at the younger X-Man. He gritted his teeth in preparation for his retort when a voice called from the cockpit.  
  
"Don't go there, Bobby! Logan's no more responsible for Creed gutting Psylocke than any of us! Now drop it!" Warren's eyes never left the horizon. He didn't raise his voice in a vicious tone. He corrected his friend and the subject was dropped.  
  
"I believe vhat Bobby is trying to say is, he vould rather you join us," Kurt reconciled. "Und he is not alone."  
  
"I hear ya, Elf," Logan lamented. "Truth is, I wouldn't mind getting a piece 'a Creed myself. But you heard Hank. We ain't supposed ta 'engage' Creed. Just watch 'im. See if he takes us to Jeannie."  
  
"Or Sinister," Nightcrawler corrected. "Now zere is an image I cannot force from my mind. As Jubilation would say, he is 'mondo creepy.'"  
  
Bobby smiled as his friend attempted to be hip; Logan snapped his fingers. "That's right," Logan began ", you been in England all the times we dealt with Mr. Sinister!"  
  
"Ja," replied the young German. "Is it too late to be brought up to speed?"  
  
"Ja," answered Warren, from the cockpit. "We over Chinatown now. Creed's on his way south. Logan, you're out first! We're dropping you at Ellis Island. Take the ferry back to the city and stay near Ground Zero. Normal people can't smell anything there, but it should be just enough to mask your presence from Creed. Bobby, you're out at the Village. Head towards Chinatown and be on alert! I'm going to hide the Blackbird under the Brooklyn Bridge and start scanning from the skies. Kurt, in lieu of a telepath on this mission, we need you to keep us all in contact from here. Everybody ready?"  
  
"And we're not using communiqués, because...?"  
  
"Because two of our own were taken right from under our noses. Let's not risk any communications being intercepted. Maintain radio silence."  
  
"So, uhm...this is a great 'copter, Forge," Jubilation attempted. "Didja make it yourself?"  
  
"Yes," came the exacerbated reply.  
  
"Kewl." The youngest X-Man looked around, searching for something to talk about. She hadn't been this quiet since before she joined the X-Men. "So...is it an 'X-Copter?'"  
  
Forge sighed. "No," came his reply.  
  
"'Cause y'know it's got blades, right? And they, well kinda, they form an 'X', right?"  
  
No answer was forthcoming.  
  
"Fine," Jubilee muttered under her breath ", Mr.-medicine-man-turned-techno- man Forge, too good try and have a decent conversation, I'm not the one who sent you to visit your old girlfriend, no, that was Pappy X who did that, not me, but apparently you don't want to talk about that either, just wanna be silent the whole ride down to New Orleans, well fine, I can be silent too, after all, I spent years with Wolverine and he perfected that silent tough guy persona that you just g'ed—"  
  
Jubilee's tirade trailed off as Forge took in the unenviable task before him. Jubilation was right about one thing; he certainly did not want to visit with his "old girlfriend" any more than he cared to attempt to take her and her team back to the mansion. What would he say? What could he say? He and Ororo hadn't spoken for years. Not out of spite, there was just nothing to talk about. They were always busy, she with her team of X- Men, he with his inventions and his incarnation of X-Factor. And on that topic, he had to admit he was insulted that he had not been included in the mission involving Sabretooth. After all, other than Wolverine, he had the most dealing with Sabretooth as the killer had been drafted to his X-Factor team by the government. Certainly his talents would be of greater use in Manhattan than in New Orleans. Why couldn't Charles see that?  
  
With the Blackbird docked under the Brooklyn Bridge, Kurt Wagner was the only X-Man in the field with access to Cerebra. He watched the familiar dots of color on the screen, knowing full well that three in particular were his friends, and one was a dangerous enemy.  
  
Suddenly, the 'blip' signifying Sabretooth changed course. He was no longer headed to Chinatown, he was on Broadway headed in Logan's direction. Well that won't do, he thought to himself, and with a thought he teleported out into the city to warn his friends.  
  
BAMF!  
  
"Logan," Kurt cried ", he's headed your way. Be ready." And with that, he teleported away, this time towards Bobby.  
  
Logan barely had a chance to comment. He smiled at the thought of Warren's plan going to shit. Then the smell of brimstone hit his nostrils. Damn Elf, he thought to himself, I'll never get used to that.  
  
BAMF!  
  
Kurt had to teleport nine times before he spotted Bobby in a crowd crossing Canal Street. He quickly thought to activate his image inducer before rushing to meet his comrade. Then it hit him. Bobby was crossing Canal Street at Broadway. Creed could be anywhere.  
  
When he caught up to Bobby, he noticed the fear in the boy's eyes. Had he startled his friend by showing up without warning? Surely Bobby was used to his teleportation. "Bobby, Creed is—"  
  
"Behind you," finished Bobby.  
  
"Vas?!" Kurt whipped around, expecting an attack. He needn't have worried. Creed was across the way, a block and a half down the street.  
  
"Get outta here, Kurt," Bobby stammered. I got him, but there's no reason to give him two targets to smell, even if we are downwind."  
  
"Understood." And with that, Nightcrawler BAMFed out of sight.  
  
Suddenly, a brisk wind came across Bobby Drake's backside. Almost instantly, Victor Creed stopped in his tracks down the street, sniffing the air. Damnit Kurt, thought Bobby, you just gave me away!  
  
A/N: Hoo-kay, first off Mr. Sinister and Cyclops had a bit of a heart-to- heart in Alaska in X-Men (2nd series) # 23. Andy Kubert (who handled art chores on the Origin mini-series and the current 1602 maxi-series) was merely a fledgling penciler back then. Ah, memores...  
  
Right after Magneto Logan's Adamantium skeleton out, Professor Xavier allowed Sabretooth into the mansion for "rehabilitation." Needless to say, it didn't work. In Uncanny X-Men #328, Creed finally escaped, eviscerating Psylocke while doing so. Continued in the one-shot Sabretooth: The Red Zone, the original members of the X-Men hunted him all across New York City.  
  
Shortly thereafter, Creed was remanded to the care of Forge, at that time field-leader of X-Factor. 


	7. Red Eye to the Bayou

Disclaimer: (sigh) I don't own any cool stuff. Y'know I don't even own a Playstation 2? I suck, you guys, seriously. I get nothing from this, save the satisfaction of tricking all you into thinking I have talent. Bwa-ha- ha! You'll rue the day you clicked onto this fan-fic, yes you will! Wait, what are you doing? No, don't pay! Anything but that! Curse you!! Now I'm liable!!!!  
  
Sivan: Thanks again for the praise. I hope this is a better time-table to upload a new chapter. And, I'm already working on the next. I'm am sooo kewl.  
  
Kitsu Black: A new reader! Wow!! I'm glad you came back to check out the rest of the story. Your emphatic cry to update was as good a muse as any, so I hope this was quick enough for ya!  
  
The sun shone brightly on New Orleans this particular morning. And it was quiet, which, for this city anyways, was very uncharacteristic. On the outskirts of town stood a mansion, centuries old, years forgotten. Moss painted the walls of the fortress of a building, which roses three stories into the air.  
  
Inside this seemingly abandoned home the owner of this default safe house, Remy LeBeau, takes note of the silence. Since his 'renegade' team of X-Men came to rest in the bayou, the house has been bustling with drama and entertainment. Just two days ago, Heather and Davis Cameron left for their home in Australia to collect a few personal belongings that they, apparently, could not leave behind another moment. Naturally, Neal (Thunderbird) opted to join them, as he couldn't bear Heather being out of his sight for that long a period of time.  
  
Since then, things have been quiet in, what Remy has fashioned, the "X- Mansion II, the sequel." Sage, who doesn't make a sound even when she's trying, hasn't left her room since the group first "came home." Lucas Bishop, the team's resident detective, usually keeps away from the safe house, preferring to investigate the populace within the city limits. And Rogue has kept pretty quiet as well, despite Remy's best attempts to get her to cry out under the covers. If he ever allowed himself to think about it, he'd have to admit that since losing her powers that girl's come close to wearing HIM out in the bedroom.  
  
No, the only one that worries Remy is his leader, Storm. Ororo Munroe has always played it close to the vest, something Remy always respected in her. Since she split her team away from Xavier and the "mainstream" X-Men, she has begun to open up in ways Remy wouldn't have believed. And at the top of that list of unbelievables has to be her relationship with Cameron Davis, nearly ten years her junior. Remy knew he was the drop-dead last person that should be offering romantic advice, but he had to admit that seeing Cameron and Ororo together often made him cringe.  
  
He knew at least a portion of it was jealousy. He loved Rogue; there was no longer a doubt in his mind. But Rogue, sultry southern sexpot that she is, at the end of the day is a woman. Ororo, on the other hand, is a goddess in every sense of the word. Ororo is the reason Remy joined the X- Men in the first place; "the ultimate pinch" as he liked to think of it.  
  
"Mornin', Sugah."  
  
Oh, that voice. Remy could never tell if it was just her voice that turned him on, or if it was her southern drawl. After all, he HAD to appreciate that, right? Maybe it was her inflection; the way she accentuated certain syllables instead of others. Didn't matter, he was so hers.  
  
"Mornin', chere," he smiled. Just a slight grin; not even a flash of the teeth. For the life of him, he had no idea why he still played these games with her.  
  
For the life of me, Rogue thought, I have no idea why he plays these games with me. Two can play that game, and with that she faked a yawn, arched her back and stretched her only article of clothing just below the danger zone.  
  
"Somehow, I don't think that was for my benefit," interjected Storm, just entering the room. Rogue quickly pulled her shirt back down. Remy erupted into laughter, though it took a moment before he was comfortable enough to stand up. "I take it Sage has not left her room, yet?" she continued.  
  
"Ah swear Ah heard her in th' showah last night, or should Ah say this mornin'," Rogue replied.  
  
"I thought dat was you, chere", came the Cajun. "Good ting the door, she was locked."  
  
Rogue snickered as she poured herself a cup of coffee. "Now that might'a been embarassin'."  
  
Remy's eyes glossed over, as if pondering the possibility. Under his breath he muttered coyly ", Dat might'a been...inerestin'." Rogue's mouth hung open, agape. Before she could reply, Remy quickly turned to Ororo. "What about you, 'Ro? How come you not be with de petite surfer-boy? Neal went down under with his lady-lust, why not you?"  
  
Ororo smiled. "Do you protest to my relationship with Cameron, Remy?" Changing the subject before he could respond, she continued ", I thought spending the weekend just the four of us might be nice. I have been spending a lot of time with Cam, and just thought it would be nice to reminisce. Speaking of which, where is Lucas?"  
  
"Coming up the walk," called a voice from the hallway. Sage, still dressed in her costume was as stunning as a living computer could be. Her hair was never out of place. Her skin, alabaster; almost milky-soft to the touch, had anyone touched it as of late. And though her eyes were cold and calculating, they held stories of her passion and pain. She stood in the hallway, unmoving.  
  
For a moment or two, the other three X-Men (and women!) sat there in silence, still not knowing how to treat the newest entrant to the room. It was Remy that broke the silence addressing Ororo ", And no, I don't got a prolem wit you and de pretty boy. Guess I jus planned on havin' de place to myself, is all."  
  
"First of all, Gambit, I find it hilarious that you can call someone a 'pretty-boy', "Ororo mused. That comment alone made Rogue's eyes go wide as she attempted to stifle a laugh. The silver-haired woman leaned in front of Remy, showcasing her feminine form, seemingly for his eyes only, as she continued ", and I assure you that despite our difference in age, he's JUST able to keep up with me."  
  
Remy's face was made of stone; he didn't flinch. He just kept his grin on and admired the view.  
  
"I should warn you that Lucas is not alone," interjected Sage.  
  
Ororo stood upright, assessing the situation. Obviously, had Bishop been in trouble, Sage would have made mention of that, wouldn't she? "Really, Tessa? Who is with him," she inquired?  
  
"I don't know for certain, Storm," Sage answered matter-of-factly. "That's what prompted me to come see for myself. I only know that he's brought two individuals, one male, one female."  
  
The conversation was interrupted by footsteps coming up the stairs. Ororo and Sage stood unwavering. Remy and Rogue moved to defensive positions, just in case. Bishop was the first to round the stairs, visibly nervous.  
  
"Lucas," Storm began ", we understand you've brought guests, which is unlike—" She stopped cold. As Bishop and the young girl behind stepped out of the way, it was the last man up the stairs that caused her to quiet.  
  
When Forge rounded the last corner, he did everything in his power not to look Ororo in the eye. But he was powerless to stop it. He tried looking towards the ground as he entered the room, but for naught. As soon as she came into his peripheral vision, his eyes were drawn to hers by unforeseen force.  
  
"Hello, Windrider," he offered.  
  
"Hello, 'Maker'," Storm returned with mock ceremonious tone. Moments went by until Storm noticed the other guest. "And Jubilee! It is good to see you, child. Tell me, what brings you?"  
  
Forge looked back to Jubilee for support, as Jubilee returned his glance, not knowing what to do. He sighed deeply and said ", we've come to ask you to return home."  
  
CRACKOW!  
  
The sun was gone, hidden behind clouds that appeared out of nowhere.  
  
Back in New York, Bobby Drake is running out of options. No matter how fast or far he runs, Sabretooth maintains the same distance between them. He's been running for twenty minutes.  
  
Finally, he stops. Catching one good breath, he turns around to face Creed, hands raised. Interestingly enough, Creed merely keeps the same distance on the other side of the street, smirking.  
  
Bobby raises his communicator to rally the troops. On the other side of the street, Sabretooth nods, eagerly. Fine, you want to play like that, Bobby thinks to himself, let's play. "X-Men, this is Iceman to any X-Man in the field. I'm on 5th Street in Manhattan with Sabretooth. Requesting any and all assistance. Copy?"  
  
Silence.  
  
Brilliant idea Warren, he thinks to himself. "Maintain radio silence," he mocks aloud.  
  
Creed, picking up on this, smiles wider. He snatches a boy walking past and takes a deep wiff. "Aaaaahhhhh," he exasperates, flashing his teeth. "You smell good enough to eat, boy," he growls.  
  
As the child flails in Creed's iron-like grasp, Iceman 'ices-up.' "Let him go, Vicky!"  
  
Creed drops the child on his rear. "Bout time, IceBoy," he sneers. "What say we find out if there's a man underneath all that ice?"  
  
A/N: Alright, I confess it! My X-Treme team obviously does not coincide with the current status. If you'd like to see where I'm pulling my team from, check out another talented writer on this forum, Christy S, and her story "Reclaiming Innocence." I enjoyed her version of the X-Treme Team better than Claremont's, so I'll shameless plug her story, as well.  
  
Now don't get mad that Scott Summers is in the title of this fic, and nowhere to be seen this chapter. He'll be here. But not before next chapter's ICEMAN VS SABRETOOTH. 


	8. Iceman v Sabretooth

Disclaimer: The characters in this work of fiction are just that. Fiction. The fictional characters made by men who surpass me in creativity by so many levels and decades. I reap nothing but satisfaction from this fanfic. And even that, I find sparingly.  
  
Sorry for the wait on this latest chapter (for those actually reading), I have been taking some time out for school (isn't it usually the other way around?) and haven't really had a chance to get on the site in awhile. I don't think I need to do a recap for the uninitiated, do I? If someone is viewing this and not the previous chapters...well, "no, they're being ignorant, y'know, that's just ignorant..."  
  
("X-MEN! THIS IS PROFESSOR XAVIER. I HAVE BEEN MONITORING YOUR PROGRESS, AND MUST WARN YOU: ICEMAN HAS ENGAGED CREED IN NEW YORK. I AM SENDING YOU EACH SEPARATE DIRECTIONS. HURRY, MY X-MEN!")  
  
At once, Nightcrawler began teleporting the distance. He knew he would be the first to arrive, but what possible help could he be against Sabretooth? Regardless, he had to try.  
  
Archangel had been on the northern most tip of the island. Now, he would possibly be the last one on the scene to rescue one of his oldest friends. "_Stupid Worthington, stupid_," he thought to himself. He couldn't help but feel guilty for telling Bobby to turn his communicator off. Now his friend was in very deadly danger. He leaned hard into the wind, determined to close the gap.  
  
The Wolverine's muscles strained even harder. He knew the others had no business being involved with Creed. Especially since Creed had gained Adamantium. But, there wasn't time to think about that now. He gave his word to Drake that he'd be there to back him up. And the Wolverine was a man of his word till the end.  
  
Elsewhere, the Iceman did his best to keep a cool head. Though, at this point, he'd have been happy keeping his head at all. Sabretooth, growing impatient, finally lunged forward. Thinking quickly, Iceman covered Creed's hands in blocks of ice before sliding out of view.  
  
Creed whipped around hissing ", you'd better have a better trick up yer sleeve than that!"  
  
"I do," Bobby quipped, as he slid back towards Creed and hammered him into the wall with an iced up fist. The wall crumbled underneath Creed's massive form, and brick remnants fell out of place to land on his back, just to add insult.  
  
As Creed lay there motionless, Bobby Drake breathed a sigh of relief. But before he could congratulate himself, he heard the distinct sound of ice breaking. As he turned back to the hole, Creed had already righted himself and broken his 'restraints.' "Got eny more?" gloated Sabretooth.  
  
**BAMF!  
**  
"Matter of fact," Bobby beamed ", I guess I do." Nightcrawler's timely appearance revived his confidence, and he quickly attempted to recreate the ice-shackles over Creed's claws.  
  
Moving quicker than Bobby had anticipated, Sabretooth closed the gap between the two mutants and slashed at Iceman's chest. "Uh-uh," he grunted. "Fool me once, shame on me..."  
  
Nightcrawler teleported onto Sabretooth's back and punched at the back of the large mutant's neck. A few quick teleports and well-placed blows later, he finally came to rest about 10 feet away from Creed while holding his hands tenderly.  
  
"My bones don't give no more," Creed triumphantly stated. "Howzabout yers, demon-seed?"  
  
"Bobby," Kurt called.  
  
"On it," Bobby returned. No sooner was it said, than a small patch of ice was created under Victor Creed's feet.  
  
"What th—"  
  
It was too late. Nightcrawler teleported directly in front of Creed and released a powerful kick. Iceman positioned himself behind Creed's feet and physics took over from there. As Creed hit the ground, Nightcrawler grabbed Iceman and teleported them high atop a nearby building.  
  
Bobby glanced at Kurt's uniform. "Are you bleeding, Elf?"  
  
"Nein, mein freund, you are," Nightcrawler corrected.  
  
Sure enough, Creed's newly Adamantium-laced claws had cut through the ice armor and found soft tissue within. At the sight of his own blood, Bobby became light-headed.  
  
Nightcrawler caught a glimpse of Archangel coming over the horizon. He flailed his arms wide, attempting to catch the winged man's attention. As Warren landed on the rooftop, Bobby slid to his knees holding his chest.  
  
"Bobby!" Warren cried. "What happened?"  
  
Kurt Wagner brought his teammate up to speed.  
  
"O.k., I saw Logan running up 5th as I swooped down here. He should be here any moment. Obviously, Creed knows we're here, now. Is he still down on the street?" Warren looked over the edge of the building, but could not see Sabretooth anywhere. "Never mind, it doesn't matter. There's no point in Logan hanging back. Kurt, can you back Logan up, while I fly the kid back to the mansion?"  
  
Bobby teetered to his feet. "_Christ_, War, I'm not a kid anymore!"  
  
Paying no attention to his icy comrade, Kurt replied ", _Ja_."  
  
"Good, you and Logan can handle Creed together—"  
  
"You and Logan couldn't lift my dick!" Sabretooth barreled out onto the roof, catching Warren from behind by his wings. As Archangel squirmed, Creed continued ", so, the angel, the devil and the pussy! What the fuck are you X-Dopes on my johnson, fer?"  
  
"Let me go, Sabretooth!" Warren cried.  
  
"_Aww_, poor rich fly-boy," Creed mocked. "My claws ain't hurtin' yer feathery wings, are they, boy? Wouldn't that be a hoot to just _**RIP**_ 'em out again!?" And with that, he grabbed a handful of feathers and pulled, much to Warren's dismay.  
  
Suddenly, two columns of ice shot past Warren! Pinned against the roof was Creed, held in place by a much larger Iceman. The X-Man had transformed himself completely into ice. For the time being, his wounds would not affect him.  
  
"Excellent work, Robert," congratulated Kurt.  
  
Iceman didn't respond. His gaze was fixed upon the object of their mission, making sure that this time he didn't escape.  
  
"Argh!" moaned Warren. "Son of bitch dislocated my wing!"  
  
"Yer breaking my heart, wings," Creed hissed.  
  
"Shut up, Creed," Bobby retorted. "You're beaten. Done. You're pinned against the floor. You've got no leverage. Now, what did you to Jean?"  
  
"You think so, huh?" growled Creed, ignoring the obvious question. The ice began cracking. Bobby reacted to catch the crack, but it was too late. Creed's "body-cast" erupted, and he was on his feet in less than a heartbeat. He slashed frantically at Iceman's form, taking huge chunks of ice away from the main body. "Third time's the charm, eh kid?" he growled.  
  
A large wing slammed against Creed. Satisfied that he'd dealt enough damage to Iceman, Sabretooth turned towards Archangel and Nightcrawler.  
  
When the two X-Men had flanked Creed, Warren extended his wing for another punch, but Sabretooth caught it and tightened his grip. As Warren collapsed in pain, Creed ran up close to Nightcrawler and stopped just in front of him. The back of Kurt's heel edged over the side of the building.  
  
"Nowhere to go, kid," Creed smiled.  
  
"But up," Kurt finished, and with that he grabbed hold of Sabretooth and teleported them both high above the rooftop.  
  
"_This_ is a new one," Creed yelled over the wind. He grabbed Kurt's costume and continued, "Guess which one of us is walking away! You can teleport us to solid ground, kid, and let me carve ya real nice! Option 2 means yer comin' with me to the bottom floor. Tell me, kid, do _you_ have a healin' factor?"  
  
Kurt Wagner weighed his options. The ground was getting closer. They were just about to pass the rooftop where Archangel and Iceman lay. No way can Warren fly now, Kurt thought.  
  
"Well," Creed yelled ", what's it gonna be?"  
  
Kurt closed his eyes and bowed his head to his chest. "Our Father, who art in heaven..."  
  
"_Huh_?"  
  
"Hallowed be zy name..."  
  
"Oh, this is too precious!"  
  
"Zy kingdom come, Zy vill be done on earth as it is in heaven..."  
  
"Earth's coming mighty quick, furry!"  
  
"Give us zhis day, our daily bread. And forgive us our many trespasses. As ve forgive zose who trespass against us..."  
  
"I'll do more than that once we hit the ground!"  
  
"And lead us not into temptation..."  
  
"But deliver us—"  
  
"**_RRRRYAAAAAGGHHHH_!!!!!**" There was no denying the sound of Logan's roar. The gruff Canadian leapt from the roof of the building where his teammates lie and tackled Creed in midair! The force freed Nightcrawler, but Kurt did not teleport away.  
  
"Get outta here, Elf!" Logan commanded.  
  
"I vill not leave you, mein freund," Kurt answered.  
  
"Don't worry about me, I'm gonna land on Vic's head," Logan quipped. "That oughta soften the blow."  
  
"Shaddup, Runt!"  
  
"Kurt, **GO**!!! Before your velocity gets too high to land safe!!"  
  
Nightcrawler knew his feral teammate was correct. Wherever he teleported, he'd be going the same speed and direction: FAST and DOWN.  
  
"**GO**!"  
  
"I vill pray for you."  
  
**BAMF!  
**  
"Aw, that's so sweet 'a you, Logan! Works out better this way, don'cha think?"  
  
Logan didn't answer. He merely steeled himself for the landing.  
  
"You and me," Creed continued. "This'll be the true test. Let's see who walks away from this, runt!"  
  
"You first," Logan growled, and maneuvered Creed underneath him.

* * *

As they fell, two men watched from an undisclosed location. "I cannot fully stress that Creed must NOT be captured by the X-Men. Look, see there! Wolverine is trying to kill him!"  
  
"Sorry, Sinister," replied the other man. "I've seen this one, already. Logan has _ALWAYS_ tried to kill Sabretooth."  
  
Turning only his face towards the other man, the enigmatic Mr. Sinister pecked at a keyboard while arguing ", _Scott, Scott, Scott_. You're forgetting our goal here, son. If—and I say 'if'—IF Creed kidnapped your dear wife, then isn't it safe to assume that Creed is the only hope we have of finding her?"  
  
Scott reached up to his temples, as if something were distracting him.  
  
"Do you want **LOGAN** to find your wife first? Considering the possibility he may have tried to poison you—your words, not mine—isn't it additional safe to say that **YOU** should be the first to interrogate Creed?"  
  
By this point, Scott had to reach out and grab a nearby monitor for support. He was dizzy again. The few lights in the room jumped out at him and began to dance. His heart was beating fast—faster than normal, anyway. So, why did he feel so...good?  
  
"Scott," Sinister repeated.  
  
"_Yyyyyyesss_," Scott managed, jaw clenched. Try as he might, he could not relax his jaw.  
  
"Don't you agree? That WE should get Sabretooth? No matter the cost?"  
  
"_Gnnnnooo matter the costtt_," Scott growled.  
  
"Then go," Sinister commanded.  
  
A/N: I may get lynched for this, but I already have the next chapter typed up. In fact (bracing for impact), this one has been done for quite some time now. I just never posted it. heh Anyhoo, I want to revise some of the next chapter before posting it, but I promise the wait won't be quite as long this time. Thanks to all who still find this entertaining. You know my rule; if you don't like it, tell me. I can't fix what I don't know is broke.


	9. Freefall

I don't usually incorporate songs into my fics, but I couldn't pass this one up.  
  
(Barenaked Ladies "When I Fall")  
  
_I look straight in the window,  
Try not to look below Pretend I'm not up here,  
Try counting sheep  
  
But the sheep seem to shower,  
Off this office tower It's nine point eight straight down  
Can't stop my knees  
  
I wish I could fly  
From this building, from this wall And if I should try,  
Would you catch me if I fall?  
_  
"It was quite a sight for New Yorkers, who get their fair share of 'sights.' Less than fifteen minutes ago, a large, blonde mutant with claws had decimated two unknown mutants, believed to be members of the outlaw X- Men. Upon realizing they may have been outmatched, the purported X-Men disappeared, prompting their antagonist to give chase. To a city that once played host to Galactus, this might seem like a slow news day, but apparently the drama continues as the clawed mutant, now confirmed to be the wanted murderer Sabretooth, has confronted his attackers on a roof not too far from the site of the original battle. We go now, live, to our Eye- In-The-Sky—"  
  
When the television screen switched to an aerial view, Charles Xavier tensed. But as appalling a sight as he witnessed, he could not bear to remove his gaze from the horror before him. One by one, Sabretooth was mauling his students. Miles from the action, Xavier, along with all of New York, had the best seat in the house.  
  
Henry McCoy had been in his lab since debriefing the X-Men and sending them into the field. His was the unenviable task of confirming that the rather large quantities of blood found in the Summers' boathouse did, in fact, belong to Mrs. Grey-Summers. He entered the Professor's ready room cleaning his bifocals. "Well, Professor," Beast began, "we've never had reason to doubt Logan before—Stars and Garters! Bobby!" He hurried to the television to watch in horror as his best friend had large chucks of ice ripped and clawed away from his body.  
  
_("Logan?"),_ called the Professor. _("Where the devil are you?!")  
  
("Elevator was taking to flamin' long. If certain people wouldn't **BOTHER** me, I could get there faster!")  
  
("Logan, you should know he's on the roof, tearing your fellow X-Men to pieces—quite literally, I'm afraid.")  
  
("Don't gimme that tone, Chuck! **I TOLD YOU** they had no business going up against Creed! He's—")  
  
("And does knowing this help you in any way right now, Logan?")  
  
("It could'a. Now, git outta my head, Chuck. You ain't gonna like the next few minutes.")  
  
_Logan's words ran through Charles' thoughts for a few moments. He was right. This could have been avoided had they merely listened to Logan, and he didn't like it. It isn't often the man belittles his teammates, at least not recently. His gruff nature was a warning, but interpreted as mistrust of his compatriot's abilities. How had this all gone sour so swiftly?  
  
**"OH MY GOD!"**  
  
Xavier had been too distracted by his thoughts. "What is it, Hank?" he questioned.  
  
Hank never responded. Indeed, he needn't have bothered. For there it was, plain as day, on the television screen. Logan had apparently tackled Creed off the roof of an office building in downtown New York.  
  
"Hank, prepare the med lab," Xavier commanded. When Beast remained still, he continued ", **NOW**! We haven't much time!"  
  
The Beast bounded out of the ready room, clearly shocked, leaving the Professor alone with his thoughts. Unable to help himself, he pulled his hoverchair closer to the monitor. He watched closely as his student—his friend—locked himself in battle with his greatest enemy while gravity, cruel mistress that she is, called them down.  
  
Back in New York, Logan and Creed did not make a single offensive move towards each other. They each held tight to the other's costume. Logan, despite his healing factor, wanted to make sure Creed landed first. Creed, on the other hand, merely wanted to make certain that Nightcrawler never had a chance to teleport Logan away.  
  
"**WHERE'S JEAN**?!?" Logan interrogated. Nine-inch Adamantium claws erupted from his forearms, piercing Creed's upper torso.  
  
"Last time we tried this," Creed taunted, "I was the first to my feet."  
  
"**WHAT DID YOU DO TO HER**??" Logan kept stabbing at Creed's neck and head.  
  
Oblivious to Logan's questions, Creed continued, "'Course, that was only, what, five stories? This building here is about twelve times that height!"  
  
Logan pulled his arm back for a thunderous blow. "**I'M GONNA KILL YO**—"  
  
**CHINK!  
**  
Logan looked down at the entry wound his claws made, just at the base of Victor Creed's neck. Creed's new Adamantium skeleton now blocked Logan's claws from delivering the killing blow.  
  
"You can't kill me, runt," Creed mocked. "You had plenty 'a chances though, didn'cha?" He tightened his grip on Logan's wrist, pulled him closer, and sneered, "but now, we're even..."  
  
As they continued to fall, Logan unintentionally pondered Creed's words. Victor was right. He had so many missed opportunities to kill Creed, and there were so many lives that could have been saved if Logan had done so; Janice, Mariko, Silver Fox, even the Morelocks, arguably, if only he hadn't heeded Xavier's insistence that he not kill his enemies. All those people dead because he listened to Chuck and—  
  
**ZARK!!!!!**  
  
A flash of crimson erupted from beneath the streets of New York. A large chasm now lay right below Logan and Creed. The debris, caused by the eruption of the pavement, flew upward at the two enemies. Unwavering in their grip, the duo was finally separated by a chunk of asphalt roughly the size of the Juggernaut.  
  
**BAMF!  
**  
Immediately, Nightcrawler teleported into the fray, determined to save his drinking buddy. After a few strategic jumps, he found his quarry, and together they found refuge on the rooftop above.  
  
"Damnit, Elf!" Logan growled. "I _had_ 'im!"  
  
"Right vere you vanted him, _ja_?" Kurt shot back. "And vhat did you plan to do vith him, other than prove zat you are still better than he?"  
  
"Just git me down there, Kurt," Logan replied, and with that, Nightcrawler teleported them down into the dusty cavern below the street.  
  
**BAMF!**  
  
**SNIKT! SNIKT!**  
  
The dense cloud of dirt came from all angles confusing Logan's sight and sense of smell. Remembering that Kurt was with him, he ordered the young German to check on their fellow X-Men above.  
  
**BAMF!**  
  
When Kurt teleported, the familiar smell of brimstone entered Logan's nose. However, when the smell subsided, Logan was surprised to find another familiar scent.  
  
"Summers?"

* * *

"You see what we're dealing with Ororo," pleaded Forge. "Sabretooth has already taken out most of the active team of X-Men!"  
  
Ororo Munroe stood silent and vigilante. With her hips thrust to one side, she made not one movement throughout the course of the CNN broadcast of Sabretooth's rampage in New York City. Leaning her head forward, her face was clouded by shadow, but the bright whites of her eyes seemed to glow with rage at the screen before her.  
  
Rogue turned her head into Gambit's chest and buried her face. "_We gotta do somethin', Remy_," she whispered.  
  
Remy caressed her head and whispered back, "I know, chere. Dat ole Canucklehead pro'lly land on Vic's head. You see, chere. He be alright."  
  
Bishop was already pacing. Granted, he preferred to think of it as "scanning the perimeter", but to his fellow X-Men he was merely pacing. If the New York-based X-Men were under attack, at their own home no less, then it was conceivable, at least to Bishop, that anyone wearing an "X" could suffer the same fate. "Have you room enough in your X-Copter, Forge?" questioned Bishop.  
  
"Are you going _alone_, Lucas?"  
  
All eyes in the room turned to Storm. (All except Jubilee, who sat transfixed in front of the television screen waiting for any sign that Logan was alright.) Forge turned to her with a look of desperation and remorse. Her fellow X-Men, however, were growing frustrated with her indecisiveness-turned-apathy. Storm had worked very hard over the last few years to sever all those ties to the great mansion in Westchester that had sired them all. She bore no animus to their patriarch, Charles Xavier, or the opportunities she was given as a member of the X-Men. Years ago, when both Charles and Scott had left the X-Men for various reasons, she reluctantly stepped into a new role of leadership. In a very short time, she began to revel in the role that she so nearly passed up. And when Scott and Charles both returned to the fold, Storm had to adjust to sharing the mantle of leadership; and members of her team; and having her actions questioned.  
  
In summation, Ororo Munroe had been given control of the X-Men. And when that control was in danger of being rescinded, she too felt threatened. All her life, Ororo has held an iron grip on control of her mutant abilities, her fears, her emotions, and most recently her command status. She now felt the reigns of that leadership fading away. Again.  
  
"_Why_, Ororo?" pleaded Forge. "We need you. This isn't just me asking. Nor is it Charles. You've seen the news. Even Logan may—" Forge caught himself before going any further. He turned towards Jubilee, who knelt in front of the television, tears streaming down her face. "Without Scott and Jean, you're—"  
  
"The third-runner up?" snapped Storm. "The professor wishes for me to help, so he sends you, of all people, down here into the swamp to 'fetch' me?"  
  
"Gambit can't believe dis," lamented Remy. He threw his hands into the air and rolled his eyes.  
  
"With all due respect, Gambit," said Storm. "The idea of you being so attached to those fallen is a bit hard to swallow."  
  
Gambit stopped dead in his tracks. He could not believe his leader, his friend, had even dared to go there. Though he could not understand what Storm's reasons for denial were, he could not hold his tongue any longer. "Stormy," he began. "Don' know whas up wit' you right now, don' know why you don' wanna go to help find Jeannie, or Scotty for dat matter. But _'with all due respect'_, now you just being a **bitch**." And with that comment, he stormed out of the room, with Rogue in tow.  
  
"If I must go alone," Bishop interjected. "I will do so. The professor is in danger. As are many of my friends. If you cannot make a sound tactical decision, Storm, then so be it."  
  
Storm shot a look back towards the bald, ebony man behind her. "So, my decision's _are_ being question—"  
  
Before anyone could continue, Sage shot up. "**Security breach! Basement!! Identity: Unknown**."  
  
No one said another word. Indeed, they didn't have time. Microseconds later, a fiery explosion disintegrated the lower levels of the southern mansion, engulfing all those wearing an "X" in it's fatal embrace. 


End file.
